


The Things We Do...

by Sybbi



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Child Loss, F/M, Pre-Canon, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-09-20 12:19:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17022504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sybbi/pseuds/Sybbi
Summary: ... for the ones we love.The Van Der Linde gang is moving through the Northern Grizzlies, escaping the law but also moving away from the dream of retirement in the West. They find a place to weather the winter, and with any luck, they'll be able to get some much needed rest. Yet luck doesn't seem to be on Arthur's side.After Strauss is beaten and robbed, he's tasked with finding the gang's money. Simple, if not a bit of a pain in the ass. Unfortunately, it turns out he may have bitten off more than he could chew with this job. When the thief's plight strikes a chord, he can't bring himself to turn her over to the hangman's noose, something that both frustrates and bewilders him. He just hopes the new girl doesn't give the gang any more problems than they've already got.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> You know what I definitely need? Another WIP. (But RDR2 has me by the balls rn so what am I supposed to do?! UGH!)
> 
> Anyway, Arthur Morgan deserves to have someone to find happiness with, and that is what this story is about. Two broken people finding comfort and happiness in one another. It'll start off pre-canon, but work itself into the game's timeline.

 

The town of Browning was surprisingly large for a mountain town in the middle of the Grizzlies. Hosea had mentioned the lack of railroad access, and so Arthur had pictured maybe one or two struggling businesses surrounded by scattered, decrepit wooden homes at most. The gang had moved through such towns before, especially now as they traveled through the mountains and away from the law that had started to hound them in the northwest.

While their slow and arduous trek had already been pretty miserable, those tiny mountain towns had made things worse. It was so damn difficult trying to find leads in those places -- folk were suspicious of every move the gang made, simply by virtue of them being outsiders. Which, given who and what they were, Arthur actually had to say was pretty smart of the locals.

But Browning, well… maybe they’d be able to find some decent scores yet.

The town may not have been accessible by railroad, but it was one of the only stops along the most navigable road through the Grizzlies, and so it certainly wasn’t wanting for business. What Hosea had described as being a modest trading post village had at some point become a fully-fledged town, with everything from its own sheriff to a newspaper -- it even had an almost-impressive looking bank that Dutch had eyed up when they first passed it by.

Most importantly, though, the people here were used to the comings and goings of travelers and itinerant workers, so the gang’s arrival in the area would not draw any undue attention.

“I guess the place has had a boom recently. Or maybe it’s just been longer than I thought since I last came through,” Hosea said, craning his neck to scope out the different storefronts.

While most of the others had stayed behind to set up camp in an abandoned ranch house, Arthur had been asked to ride into town along with Dutch and Hosea as they got a feel for things. Herr Strauss, ever the opportunist, had also come along, hoping to find a few clients, but he'd gone his own way not long after arriving.

That was fine by Arthur. He knew the loanshark business brought in money, and though he did occasionally enjoy venting his frustrations on particularly ornery clients, he almost always felt dirty after he went to collect. Well, dirtier than usual, anyway. Knowing the Austrian was likely roping in some poor, broke farmer at that very moment, and knowing the deal almost always left such folk in even worse shape than they were before, Arthur had to say he was glad he didn’t have to sit by and watch the poor fools sign their lives away.

“Is that your way of saying you’re older than you’d like to admit?” Dutch’s deep timbre sounded out from ahead, and Arthur saw him glance back at Hosea with a teasing twinkle in his eye.

“You know I have no problem admitting how old I am! Gives me an excuse to skip out on chores in camp,” Hosea shot back, earning chuckles from both Dutch and Arthur.

“Well, you’re not too old to weasel out a few opportunities, I hope. We’re sitting pretty right now, but I don’t want to dip too deep into our funds over the winter, which means we'll have to find a way to keep earning.”

“S’at mean we’re stayin’ here, Dutch?” Arthur yelled up the line.

“As long as we can make it work. Hopefully through the winter, at least. It’s only gonna start getting colder, and I know Abigail’s been worried about Jack in this weather,” Dutch replied.

Arthur hummed, nodding as they rode down the main street. Honestly, he was surprised Dutch hadn’t tried to get them settled earlier in the season. Winter came that much faster in the Grizzlies, and even in early fall, the mountains had started to swing back and forth between freezing at night and thawing during the day. As the snow had steadily started to accumulate, it had made packing up and moving the caravan that much more difficult, but there had always been something that kept them in motion.

Whether it was the overly (or appropriately) suspicious mountain folk who seemed as likely to form a lynch mob as trade with them, or running into trouble with a bunch of moonshiners in the wilderness, Dutch had been pushing the band to keep moving for one reason or another. They were all overdue for a rest, in Arthur’s opinion, so hopefully they would finally be getting it here.

“If we’re really sticking around, then that means we’ll need to keep the trouble to a minimum,” Hosea said, earning a hum of agreement from their dark-haired leader.

“Of course. I’ll have a word with everyone when we get back -- that there’s to be no trouble in Browning.”

“Make sure them Callander boys understand, Dutch. The rest of us keepin’ a low profile won’t mean much if they end up blowin’ another bartender’s head off,” Arthur piped up with a frown. The brothers were good to have on a job, but the cocky bastards were a bit too eager to whip their guns out otherwise. There were ways to deal with a surly bartender, but shooting him in broad daylight wasn’t one of them.

“Don’t worry ‘bout them, Arthur. I’m sure I can find somethin’ to keep those boys busy _outside_ of town. As for you, why don’t you check out the Sheriff’s Office?” Dutch pointed down the street a ways to a modest wood structure. “Collectin’ bounties oughta be easy money for you, son. Won’t hurt to keep a pulse on the local law, either.”

“Sure. But where are you two headin’ off to?”

“Oh, this town’s changed, but I’m willing to bet I still have a few old contacts who wouldn’t mind doing business with us,” Hosea said, winking at Arthur as he moved Boadicea up the line. “Dutch and I going to make a few social calls.”

“Alright. Try not to raise any hell without me,” Arthur replied, and with a parting nod, he turned Boadicea away from his mentors, trotting over to the building with ‘SHERIFF’ painted above the door in peeling white paint. The tall, rose grey mare seemed relieved when he finally swung himself off, and it was with a pang of guilt that Arthur looked his girl over and realized she’d started to lose some weight. The almost constant moving and the less-than-adequate feed they’d managed to secure for the horses was beginning to take a toll; she and the rest of the gang’s herd needed a rest just as badly, if not more, than the gang themselves.

“I’m sorry, girl,” he murmured, giving her a quick pat on the neck, “I’ll give ya a nice brushdown when we get back, I promise.”

The mare only seemed to give a tired sigh in reply, and Arthur quickly turned away and climbed up the stairs. The quicker he got this done, the sooner they both could have a break.

Despite the new-looking wood stove inside, the office wasn’t especially warm, and the sheriff didn’t seem particularly welcoming, either. The dark-haired, thick-mustachioed man only gave a grunt when Arthur greeted him, looking up from his desk at the far end of the building with a steely-eyed stare. The lawman’s eyes gave Arthur a quick once over, sizing him up, and a deep frown settled onto his face as he waited for Arthur to explain himself.

“I’m, uh, here for some bounty work,” Arthur supplied. The sheriff’s eyes narrowed, and the man leaned back some in his chair as he turned more fully towards Arthur.

“Ain’t no such work to be had ‘round here, boy. Not right now, anyhow. ‘Less’n you’re one a’them lookin’ for that woman from over in Dalrow, but I’ll tell ya what I told all the rest of’em: We get folk movin’ through here all the time, and no, I ain’t seen no such woman. She could be halfway to Mexico by now, and if she was half as smart as they make her out to be, she prob’ly is. Ya’d have better luck huntin’ deer in a white dress than postin’ up ‘round here for that girl,” he said, the words so quick and practiced that Arthur couldn’t help but raise a brow, wondering how many times he’d given this little monologue. Raising his hands, Arthur gave a good-natured laugh, trying to ease some of the tension he sensed rolling off the man in waves.

“I’m afraid I’m new to the area, Sheriff, so I’m not sure what or who you’re talkin’ ‘bout.”

At that, the man’s rigid posture seemed to relax some, the wary annoyance in his eyes fading away until only the wariness remained.

“Oh. Well, I’m sorry Mister…?”

“Matthews. Allen Matthews.”

“Mister Matthews, I apologize. I’ve been gettin’ hounded by every wannabe bounty hunter this side of the Grizzlies lookin’ to find some girl what killed a banker in the town over, and I’m about ready to hang myself if I hear any more ‘bout it,” he sighed, shaking his head.

“Well, I’m sorry, Sheriff,” Arthur replied, offering his best polite smile as he took another step into the office, “I didn’t know. But uh, at the risk of you offin’ yourself, can I ask what the big deal ‘bout this girl is? Sounds like a lotta folk are goin’ to a lotta trouble for one woman, and I _am_ lookin’ for work.”

The sheriff scoffed, his blue eyes rolling as he turned back to his desk, pulling open a drawer and taking out a somewhat yellowed sheet of paper before thrusting it disdainfully over to Arthur.

“Look at that number. Tell me, even if you was some no-name miner or ranch hand, you _wouldn’t_ try huntin’ her down yaself,” the sheriff grumbled. Curious, Arthur took the poster, brows furrowing as he looked it over. Though the woman’s name was printed in big, bold letters at the top, that wasn’t what caught his eye first. On either side of a sketchy ink drawing, ‘$350’ was emblazoned on the sheet, and his jaw slackened. He had to remind himself to keep from drooling.

“Price for her is almost ridiculous. Ain’t sure why they got it that high. We had folk kill way more people and go for half that,” the sheriff continued, though he seemed to be venting to himself rather than talking to Arthur. For his part, Arthur was busy drinking in the details on the poster. Wanted for murder, theft, and… fornication? That seemed odd. Still, Arthur gave a low whistle.

“This lady seems like a piece of work,” he mumbled.

“Was a damn mess, I’ll say that much,” the sheriff piped in. “Man who used to be sweet on her opened his home to her, even took care of her when she was in a family way. He done a good thing, takin’ her in like that. Only for her to knife him one night and take off with his money. But it’s been so long now, my bet is she’s gone. Either somethin’ got her and her babe in the mountains, or she’s put a state or two between her and here.”

“Yeah, maybe…” Arthur frowned down at the poster before glancing back up at the lawman, who was giving him a hardened, expectant look, like he knew exactly what Arthur was going to say next. Holding up the paper, Arthur didn’t even get to finish asking if he could keep the poster before he was interrupted.

“Knock yaself out, boy. Now go on. I got _real_ work needs doin’,” the sheriff said, impatiently pointing to the door. Arthur nodded, thanking the sour-faced man as he saw himself out, folding the paper up and tucking it away into his satchel.

 _Ain’t much to go on, but it’s work_ , he thought, pulling out a cigarette to light. _Could try askin’ around town, but it don’t sound like that’ll get me anywhere_ … _Could try retracing her steps from Dalrow, but if it’s been that long, her trail’s probably cold._ After a long hit, Arthur breathed out, shaking his head as he blew out the smoke. No, there wasn’t much to go on at all.

By the time he’d finished his cigarette, he’d resolved to see what little information might be hovering around Browning before heading back to camp to give him and Boadicea a rest. He could start chasing whatever scant leads he got tomorrow. Then, down the street, he noticed a familiar figure stumbling out of an alley. With a scowl and a groan, Arthur threw his cigarette butt into the frozen street before quickly making his way down the boardwalk.

Herr Strauss’ face was much more swollen than Arthur remembered when they’d parted ways, his fine clothes covered in mud, and he definitely hadn’t been walking like a wobbly, newborn foal last time. The old man was desperately clutching his side, and Arthur picked up the pace, practically jogging over to the Austrian as his eyes looked over his coat for any signs of blood. They were supposed to be lying low -- the last thing they needed was for one of them to bleed out in the middle of town.

“Strauss!” The scrawny man jumped at the call of his name, but as soon as Arthur locked eyes with him, he saw some semblance of relief.

“Ah, thank goodness -- Herr Morgan!” Strauss called, slowly taking a few clumsy steps toward Arthur before deciding it was too painful and leaning on the side of the general store instead.

“What the hell happened to you?” Arthur none-to-gently lifted the arm Strauss had clamped to his side, trying to get a better look for any blood soaking through his jacket.

“I deal with desperate souls, Morgan. Sometimes too desperate. Don’t worry, I’m not bleeding -- on the outside, anyway,” Strauss hissed, pulling his arm out of Arthur’s grip and returning it to his side. “Usually I’m able to tell which ones will take my deals with minimal risk to my person. But I’m afraid I misread the situation this time.”

Arthur felt his jaw tightening as he helped Strauss over to a bench outside the storefront. _So much for getting some rest._

“You were robbed?”

“Yes. By some wretch of a woman -- dark hair, light eyes, in some threadbare dress and coat that looked like it hadn’t been washed in ages. She was lingering around the doctor’s office and looked properly distraught about something, so she seemed perfect for my usual proposal. I guess she had a better idea,” Strauss grimaced, wincing as he tried to get comfortable.

“Did you see where she went?” Arthur pressed.

“I didn’t see much of anything, I’m afraid. But if you ask around the doctor’s office, I’m sure you’ll find something out. I have a feeling she went back there.”

Arthur nodded before giving a shrill whistle and, tired as she was, Boadicea faithfully slipped free from the hitching post down the street and trotted over, ears perked at attention. He quickly mounted up, giving Strauss one last look.

“You gonna be okay if I leave you here?”

“This isn’t my first time getting a beating in my line of work,” Strauss groaned, trying to sit up a little straighter, “even if the last time was when I was considerably younger. I’ll bounce back. Go find our money, Herr Morgan.”

He didn’t need any more encouragement. With a press of his heels, Boadicea started off, falling into a steady lope down the streets at Arthur’s guidance. The manhunt -- or possibly goosechase -- of a murderous woman would have to go on hold in favor of a fraught maid.

 _If it ain’t one thing, it’s another,_ Arthur thought, trying his best not to let his weariness weigh him down.

 

\---

 

Charlotte’s hands were still shaking, and not just from the cold, by the time she made it back. Lord, she hadn’t ridden so hard in a long time. A sense of paranoia was something she lived with nowadays, so usually she didn’t like to agitate it further, but she had hardly had a choice. She worked for room and board, not earning much more for herself and Belén, and medicine wasn’t cheap.

Riding over to the barn at the far side of the property, she cast one last glance toward the roadway before slipping off her mount and hurriedly leading him inside. She still wasn’t entirely satisfied that she wouldn’t be followed, despite taking a somewhat circuitous route back. With any luck, she’d managed to knock the loanshark out cold and no one would be coming after her for some time -- but luck hadn’t exactly been on her side lately.

She still wasn’t sure whether to call it luck that the man happened along when he did, either. Sure, she’d gotten what she needed in the end without having to steal directly from the doctor’s office, but stealing from a loanshark was no small thing, either. No doubt she would have to be extra watchful for hired muscle looking to hunt her down now. Not that she hadn’t managed to evade such men before, but she wouldn’t be able to get up and leave now that winter was setting in and Belén was... well…

“I’ll come back and get you settled later, boy,” she whispered, hurriedly digging through the old gelding’s saddlebag before leaving him in the stall. She felt a little bad leaving him saddled up after a hard ride, but she had more pressing issues at the moment. Before exiting the barn, Charlotte cracked open the door, taking a moment to watch the entrance to the homestead again. Everything seemed still, for now. Maybe she would have more time than she thought.

 _Maybe I hit him a little_ too _hard…_ _I wonder if he woke up at all_. The thought made her stomach churn. The old man could’ve easily frozen if he hadn’t woken up in time, or if someone else hadn’t found him in that back alley _… Best not to dwell on it, I guess._

With an unsteady breath, Charlotte slipped out of the barn door and hurried across the yard, occasionally throwing another look over her shoulder towards the road. The thought that even _more_ people would be out looking for her, over a fresh offense no less, had her heart beating through her ribcage. Belén’s troubled cries, which steadily rang out clearer and clearer the closer she got to the house, did nothing to ease her nerves. She couldn’t seem to run fast enough.

“I’m back,” she called, rushing to shut out the cold as she closed the front door behind her. “Mrs. Palmer? I’m back!”

“Quit yer yellin’! I’ve heard quite enough of it from that child a’yers!” Came a raspy reply from the living room.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Palmer! I’ll go tend to her!” Charlotte called again, taking the stairs two at a time, not even bothering to remove her coat. She heard Mrs. Palmer give a quick, “‘Bout damn time,” before saying something else, but she paid it no mind, too distracted by the shrill squalls coming from her room upstairs. Every harsh cry caused her heart to squeeze, and when she threw open the door to her room and rushed to the makeshift crib, she nearly burst into tears herself.

Belén had screamed herself red in the face, snot leaking down her nose. Her dark brown eyes, the most beautiful eyes Charlotte had ever seen, were pouring out tears, which had run down the side of her soft cheeks and started to soak into her bedding beneath. As Charlotte gently scooped her into her arms, still clutching the bottle of medicine in one hand, Belén stopped screaming long enough to start coughing, and Charlotte could only hold her up and rub her back, not sure of what else to do.

“I know, baby, I know, I’m sorry,” she crooned, pressing soft kisses into her daughter’s dark hair until the coughing fit passed.

_She’s burning up..._

Belén went back to whimpering, so Charlotte took a seat on her bed, shifting Belén into one arm and bouncing her gently as she fumbled with her other hand to open the medicine. From downstairs, Mrs. Palmer was yelling about something, but wild horses couldn’t have torn Charlotte away at the moment.

When she held the bottle to her daughter’s lips, though, the babe only started crying louder and turned her head away. Frowning, Charlotte held Belén closer, giving her less room to squirm, and tried again. Her daughter gave a distressed scream, interrupted by another cough, and waved her little arms in a weak attempt to get the bottle away.

“You gotta drink, baby girl, you gotta,” Charlotte pleaded softly, desperately, trying more forcefully to hold the edge of the bottle against her child’s lips. “I ain’t losing you too.”

“GIRL! I said the fire’s dyin’! Go out to the shed and bring in more wood, NOW!” Mrs. Palmer barked. The old woman sounded closer now, like she had moved from her seat in the living room and was yelling up from the foot of the stairs. No doubt she would be even more caustic than usual for the rest of the day, considering she’d had to get up. “And get that child to shut up, if ya have to knock it over the head!”

“I’ll be right down, Mrs. Palmer!” Charlotte yelled back. Though she tried to hid her frustration, anyone with sense could have picked up the thinly-veiled anger in her voice, or the trembling in her tone that said tears were not far away.

 _Hag,_ she thought, deciding to try something else. The bottle was big enough to stick her finger into, so she did, and when Belén opened her mouth to wail again, Charlotte sat the girl up and stuck the finger, dripping with tonic, inside. Belén struggled at first, but after a few seconds, she seemed to instinctively give the finger a few sucks before making a sour face. Charlotte removed the finger, dipping it back into the bottle. When her daughter started to cry more, Charlotte did it again, quick enough to get the droplets into her daughter’s mouth.

“I know it don’t taste like milk and honey, baby, but you’re drinking this medicine. Even if I have to feed it to you drop by drop,” Charlotte whispered. “You ain’t leavin’ me too.”

The two of them fell into a sort of rhythm, Charlotte slowly forcing the medicine down her daughter’s throat and Belén fussing each time. By the time she was satisfied with the amount of tonic she’d managed to feed Belén, the little girl seemed to have cried herself to exhaustion. Charlotte took the opportunity to gently wipe the snot and tears from her face, crooning to her and rocking her as her daughter’s whimpering became softer. To Charlotte’s relief, it wasn’t long before the girl was sleeping again, and she tucked the child back into her makeshift crib.

She would need to hurry and appease Mrs. Palmer if she wanted to know any peace for the rest of the day, but Charlotte took a few extra seconds to drink in the sight of her sleeping daughter, her beautiful baby girl, the only good thing left in her life. She’d given up everything for her husband, and after she’d lost him, she’d been willing to do anything to keep their baby, the last thing she had left of him, safe.

 _You’re worth it, sweet girl,_ Charlotte thought, smiling sadly down at Belén when she gave a little cough in her sleep. _I’ll steal from a thousand men before I let anything happen to you._


	2. The Blizzard

Once upon a time, Charlotte had felt sorry for Mrs. Palmer. She could clearly remember the day when she’d first knocked on the biddy’s door, desperate for work and a roof over her head, and how she hadn’t been able to hold the woman’s bitterness against her. All she’d seen was a poor old widow who, much like Charlotte, hadn’t been able to catch a break in life.

She’d heard the rumors while she was traveling. Mrs. Palmer’s husband had recently died, most of her children had grown up and scattered to the wind, and even her youngest son who had been trying to look out for her had been sent away at the start of the Spanish-American War. To add to the misery, there was word on the street that the hired help her son had left her with had run off with just about everything of value.

For all her pity, though, Charlotte also had more selfish reasons to seek work there. The cataracts that clouded the woman’s eyes meant it was impossible for Mrs. Palmer to get a good look at her. She wasn’t able to see how haggard and dirty Charlotte was back then, something that had alarmed other potential employers, and she certainly wasn’t able to recognize Charlotte’s likeness from, say, a wanted poster. By her figuring, the setup would be perfect. Charlotte needed Mrs. Palmer as much as Mrs. Palmer needed her. The grouchy widow had hired “Alice” practically on the spot.

Charlotte had been sure that in time, Mrs. Palmer would loosen up; if she saw that her new handmaid was relatively trustworthy and hardworking, maybe that stony facade of hers would fall away.

“Ya better be makin’ that slop thick, girl. And season it properly, too! Last time ya made stew it was like drinkin’ watered down deer piss!”

Of course, by the time Charlotte realized the crone wasn’t putting on a tough act and was just sour down to her core, it was much too late.

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Palmer. I know how to make stew,” Charlotte managed to reply evenly. “I had to tend to Belén last time, which was why the stew was a bit off. But she hasn’t been very fussy today, thank goodness.”

Mrs. Palmer, settled in a rocking chair at the back end of the kitchen, gave a huff. Usually she took a spot in the living room, but with Charlotte busy cooking, the kitchen was the warmest place in the house. Unfortunately, that meant Charlotte had needed to endure every complaint and insult that passed through Mrs. Palmer’s head -- and a bitter old woman with nothing to do could come up with quite a few.

“Thank goodness that brat’s stopped wailin’ every hour of the day indeed. And here I was believin’ God had forsaken me. I guess miracles do happen, if ya pray hard enough.”

Keeping her mouth shut, Charlotte paused in her mixing to throw a glance over at Belén. A large laundry basket stuffed with old pillows and covered by a blanket was useful as an improvised crib and allowed her to bring her daughter around the house as she did her chores. Belén was sleeping soundly now in the far corner, but Charlotte wasn’t sure how long it would last. The coughing fits had still not completely vanished; even now, she could hear a slight rasp with every inward breath her daughter took.

The medicine Charlotte had gotten seemed to help soothe symptoms, but hadn’t gotten rid of the illness, much to her frustration. Belén’s fever had lowered, but the girl was still flushed with warmth. At first, Charlotte had been happy that her daughter was able to sleep and get more rest. Yet after a few days, the lack of energy had started to worry her. Just getting her to suckle was a struggle at this point, and Charlotte wasn’t sure what else she could do besides hope Belén would get better soon.

“Hell, maybe I pray hard enough, you’ll get off yer lazy ass and get back to town one a’these days! Pick up my damn mail and a newspaper like I done  _ told _ ya ta do the  _ last _ time, ya dumb slewer!”

Sucking the inside of her lip, Charlotte’s gaze went back to the task at hand, but not before lingering on the knife she’d used earlier to cut up the beef and vegetables. Honestly, she was beginning to wonder if Mrs. Palmer  _ wanted _ Charlotte to kill her. The woman certainly seemed to ask for it at every turn.

“I told you, there’s a front rolling through. I didn’t want to get trapped in town by a snowstorm and leave you two here to fend for yourselves,” she replied, miraculously still managing to keep her tone gentle and placating.

Outside, in the quickly fading light, Charlotte could still make out the thick cloud cover that had rolled in, keeping the skies an oppressive dark grey the past few days. The already frigid temperatures had plummeted, and what had started as a light snowfall had slowly been picking up. The snow on the ground had been steadily creeping higher and higher, making just the trips between the house and barn to tend to the animals a pain; Charlotte didn’t want to think about having to ride into town.

Of course, the weather was just a convenient excuse. There were other reasons she didn’t feel like waltzing back into civilization at the moment, but none of those were things she could tell Mrs. Palmer.

_ This weather should throw off any pursuers, too.  _ She thought, mixing in a slurry to thicken the stew. Across the room, Mrs. Palmer started muttering something under her breath.  _ I’ll probably want to avoid Browning for a while longer, just in case. … But then how the hell am I gonna get the hag her mail and a paper? _

Charlotte was busy trying to remember if the smaller local villages had post offices when she heard it, and froze. Behind her, Mrs. Palmer also fell silent, no doubt just as bewildered and unsure as Charlotte, and when Charlotte turned to the woman for guidance on what to do, she saw only a deep frown set in the woman’s wrinkled face.

Someone was knocking on the front door.

From the faint calls of, “Hello? Anyone home?” it sounded like a man, but not one that Charlotte recognized. Judging from Mrs. Palmer’s silence, it wasn’t anyone she was familiar with either, and Charlotte could feel her palms start to sweat. In all the time she’d worked here, no one had visited Mrs. Palmer. No one  _ wanted  _ to visit Mrs. Palmer. So who in their right mind would come riding up to the Palmer Homestead in the dark of a winter evening with the start of a blizzard rolling in?

Once again, Charlotte’s eyes slid over to the knife she’d left sitting on the counter.

“Ya didn’t invite one a’yer damn Johns over to  _ my _ home, did ya, girl?” Mrs. Palmer quietly hissed.

“What?! No! I’ve told you before I’m not a whore, Mrs. Palmer! I don’t know who that is!” Charlotte hissed back, unable to keep the bite out of her tone this time. Mrs. Palmer scowled at her, or about where she probably thought Charlotte was, and the old woman’s cloudy eyes narrowed. There was another beat of silence as the man knocked and called out again, and then Mrs. Palmer gave her order.

“Well, then go see who the hell it is and what they want, girl.”

Charlotte hesitated before giving a low, “Yes ma’am,” and turned away. She glanced again over at the corner where she had left Belén  -- still sound asleep -- before heading out the kitchen door, smoothly picking up the knife as she passed and holding it close to her thigh.

_ Bounty hunters? Or is it one of that old man’s thugs? How the hell could they have tracked me down? I must’ve run over my own tracks a dozen times and left a dozen different trails for them to follow, and this snow should’ve made tracking damn near impossible. _

Shakily grasping the handle, Charlotte took a deep breath, sweeping the knife behind her skirts and out of view before she cracked the door open. She stood partly behind the door with one foot planted firmly behind it, which would hopefully keep the man from shoving his way in if that was what he had a mind to do.

Cold air rushed inside, sending an involuntary shiver down Charlotte’s spine. It was hard to see much in the fading light, but what she was able to make out didn’t put her at ease. The stranger was tall, broad shouldered, and though some of his bulk may have come from the thick winter coat he was wearing, she had no doubt he could easily overpower her if he tried. She swallowed, her grip on the knife tightening.

_ Stay calm. _

“How can I help you, sir?” she asked softly, in that demure kind of way that usually got so many men to lower their guard -- to underestimate her.

“Oh, hello, miss. Uh, I’m very sorry to bother you, but uh… I was, uh...” the man trailed off, and Charlotte’s lips twitched downward. From the light of the lamps behind her, Charlotte could see the glint of his eyes from under his gambler hat. She could make out when he blinked and squinted, and she tensed under his scrutiny, watching his shadowy face closely as he looked her over and frowned.

_ Does he know me…? He knows me. Oh God, he knows me…! _

Even as she tried to keep her expression calm, her heartbeat seemed to pick up, a sudden rush of adrenaline coursing through her as the man leaned in closer. It took all she had to keep her extremities from shaking. Behind her, she shifted her grip on the knife and sized the strange man up as well. How fast were his reflexes? She might be able to slash open his stomach, or maybe stab at his throat before he caught her. Maybe. The arm holding the knife tensed, getting ready to swing-

“Well? Who the hell is it, girl?!”

Charlotte flinched at Mrs. Palmer’s grating voice, and the man straightened up and took a step back, putting some space between the two of them again -- too much space for Charlotte to easily use the knife.

“Pardon me, ma’am, but you’ve… I think you’ve got, uh…” He trailed off again, lifting a hand to make a brushing motion across his face. 

Charlotte frowned even deeper before taking her free hand off the door handle and brushing it against her face.

_ Oh, for the love of- Was that what he was looking at? _

She hardly ever had time to take care of herself anymore, and honestly when you were living with a blind woman and an infant, sometimes you just didn’t care enough to glance in a mirror. Charlotte wasn’t sure how long the dirt -- she hoped it was dirt and not something else from when she’d been tending the animals -- smeared on her face had been there. Surprisingly, though, she found she wasn’t very embarrassed. When she only gave the man an expectant look, he cleared his throat and spoke again.

“Anyway, my name’s Allen Matthews. I’m sorry to bother y’all, but I was wonderin’ if I could stay in your barn for the night, if it weren’t no trouble. I was on a huntin’ trip when all this started up-” he made a gesture behind him at the falling snow, which seemed to be coming down even faster and thicker now- “and I was startin’ to think I’d end up frozen if I just stayed in my tent.”

“God damn it girl, are ya deaf? Or just stupid?! I  _ said _ who is it?!”

At the puzzled look she caught Mr. Matthews sending into the house behind her, Charlotte let out a snort. It was always funny to see how people reacted to Mrs. Palmer being… well, Mrs. Palmer. Starting to feel confident once again and wondering if she couldn’t have a little fun, Charlotte smiled pleasantly up at the man, as if she were a prim and proper handmaid at a rich politician’s house rather than a grime-smeared servant with a she-devil shouting for answers behind her.

“It’s good to meet you, Mr. Matthews. Excuse me, I’ll have to ask the lady of the house if that would be okay,” she said, nearly breaking her act at the idea of Mrs. Palmer being a ‘lady.’ Then, without moving from her spot, she yelled over her shoulder into the house, “There’s a Mr. Allen Matthews at the door, wanting to know if he can spend the night in our barn to get out of the blizzard.”

“You must think I was born yesterday! Y’ain’t turnin’ my house  _ or _ my barn into yer own private brothel, ya little shake!”

With a low growl, Charlotte was about to yell back for what seemed like the  _ thousandth _ time that she was not actually a prostitute, and that the man really did seem to be trying to escape the bad weather. Before she could, a series of rough little coughs followed by weak crying and more yelling from Mrs. Palmer interrupted her.

“On second thought, I changed my mind! He can have yer room upstairs, and you an yer bastard can spend the night in the barn!” The old hag cackled.

Her good humor was gone almost as soon as it arrived. Lips pressing in a thin line, Charlotte again choked down the urge to kill the woman, another thing she seemed to have done about a thousand times now, and turned back to Mr. Matthews. She still couldn’t make out anything in great detail, but she thought she could see a deep frown settling onto his face.

“Apologies, Mister. Mrs. Palmer is a bit difficult,” she sighed.

“Seems like an understatement,” the man grumbled, and Charlotte shot him a tired smile.

“Do you have any weapons on you? Supper’s almost ready, and I’d invite you in, but I’m afraid you’ll have to leave any guns you have behind.”

“Sure -- and thank you, miss -- but do ya mind if I get my horse settled in the barn first? I’ve been pushin’ her hard these last few days, and I don’t want her out here in the cold any longer than she has to be.”

Charlotte nodded, and after welcoming him to use some of the hay they had stored, she watched Mr. Matthews saunter off the porch and start leading a tall grey mare away through the drifting snow.

_ Quite a few guns _ , she noted solemnly,  _ and not all of them good for hunting -- not for animals, anyway. _

After closing the door and taking a deep, steadying breath, she hurried back to the kitchen. Setting the knife back on the counter and giving the stew a quick glance, Charlotte scooped Belén up, muttering sweetly to the girl and rubbing gentle circles on her back as she coughed and whined.

“Mrs. Palmer, the stew should be ready shortly. I’ll be right back.”

“Tch. That man off in my barn?”

“Yes, he’ll be joining us for supper. I’m going to give Belén some medicine, and then I’ll be down to get the dining room ready.”

The old woman started mumbling something, but Charlotte didn’t much care what she had to say at the moment. After hurrying up the stairs and making it into her and Belén’s shared room, Charlotte peered out the western facing window in time to see Mr. Matthews closing the barn door. She’d hopefully have some time before he got his horse settled down for the night.

Turning her attention back to her daughter, Charlotte quickly started unbuttoning the front of her dress, thinking she might be able to get Belén to suckle for a few minutes. But, much as she had for the last few days, the little girl only seemed to fuss more, and Charlotte finally buttoned herself back up, trying not to feel completely hopeless. She didn’t have the time right now, but if it was the last thing she would do tonight, she’d get her daughter to drink something. In the meantime, she opened the bottle of tonic sitting on her nightstand. Using the same old tricks, Charlotte force fed Belén her medicine and waited for the little girl to slowly drift to sleep.

With another glance out the window, Charlotte barely caught sight of the barn door opening and closing through the thick snowfall. The tall, dark figure of Mr. Matthews making his way back to the house was almost invisible as the wind kicked up the snow even further.

“Let’s hope Mr. Matthews knows how to behave, darling,” she whispered, giving Belén’s forehead a soft kiss. “But just in case…”

Shifting Belén into one arm, Charlotte walked over to a beaten-up old dresser. The thing didn’t get much use, seeing as Charlotte and Belén didn’t have more than four sets of clothes between them, but an old mousehole that’d been chewed into the side baseboard made a convenient little hiding spot. Kneeling down and reaching inside, doing her best not to jostle Belén, Charlotte pulled out an old, loaded pistol and slipped it into an extra, hidden pocket she’d sewn into her dress.

_ I guess it’s time to set the table. _

 

\---

 

As he brushed Boadicea down for the night, Arthur Morgan found himself lost in thought. Usually tracking down lowlifes who’d either wronged the gang or were worth a decent sum to the local law was an easy enough job, cut and dry, but at the moment, he found himself at a loss about what to do next.

It had been a few days since he’d set out from the town of Browning with a description of Strauss’ mugger and some vague directions. Strauss had been right: the mystery woman  _ had  _ returned to the doctor’s office, and with a little “coaxing” on Arthur’s part, the doctor had given him a few morsels of information.

Arthur was looking for a young woman named Alice Green who was said to be working at an old homestead in the wilderness. She came into town on occasion for supplies and was sweet enough, but in the doctor’s words, “the poor thing” always seemed overworked and jittery, like an old horse suffering from a cruel owner.

Frankly, Arthur couldn’t have cared less about whatever her troubles might’ve been. He cared about the gang, and though the money she’d run off with didn’t make a huge dent in the their overall savings, it still couldn’t be tolerated. Not by him, and certainly not by Dutch whenever he ended up finding out. So, after getting directions to the Palmer Homestead, he’d set off, giving a mumbled apology to Boadicea as she’d huffed her quiet complaint.

_ I’ll throttle that doctor if I ever see him again. _

He wasn’t sure if the man had intentionally given him bad directions -- maybe it had been one last effort on his part to save a  _ poor, sweet thing _ from the likes of some big brute -- or if it was just one of those things where all the locals knew where to go, and the doctor had assumed Arthur would figure it out too with minimal description. Maybe the snow had just obscured some of the landmarks he’d been supposed to recognize, or hell, maybe he really was just that dumb. Whatever it was, he’d ended up going in circles for the better part of his hunt.

At one point, he’d thought he might’ve been on the right track, and had followed what he’d thought was a horse’s trail through the snow, but that had only served to get him even more lost than before, leading him to the middle of absolutely nowhere. And then the weather had started to turn, and he was deep in the wilderness of the Grizzlies with hardly a clue which way town or camp was, and the tracks he could’ve followed back were being covered fast.

It was pure luck he’d stumbled upon this little homestead when he did, and even luckier the maid seemed a bit more inclined to hospitality than the “lady” of the house. With the snow and the wind picking up, Arthur hadn’t been sure he and Boadicea would survive another night camping out in the cold. Even now, he could hear the gusts whistling outside the barn.

“Little drafty, but it’s better than nothin’. Least ya got somethin’ to eat, eh girl?” he said, giving the mare one last pat as he finished brushing her down. Boadicea only flicked her ears back, listening to him but too absorbed with the hay he’d placed out for her.

Across the way, an old bay gelding nickered insistently, stamping his feet in the stall. Arthur couldn’t decide if the horse was simply excited to have company or outraged that another horse was getting attention and eating up his hay. As he sorted through his belongings, hiding his guns away in another empty stall, Arthur murmured softly to the old boy as he tucked his hunting knife into his boot.

“S’alright, boah. I ain’t here to cause trouble -- for once. We just won’t tell the ladies about this though, will we?” he said conspiratorially.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to trust the homesteaders, but he and the gang had been traveling through the mountains for a while now, and they’d met their fair share of dingbats. Too much isolation wasn’t good for a man, and that point had been proven time and again at some of the isolated camps and cabins he’d come across. The women seemed nice enough -- or the maid did, anyway -- and he’d honor the request to leave his guns outside, but he wasn’t chancing being caught without a weapon of  _ some _ sort.

The distance from the barn to the house wasn’t that long, but between the growing snow drifts and the gusts of wind so strong he had to brace himself with each step, it seemed to take forever for Arthur to make his way back.

_ This storm’s gonna be a bad one! Damn. Hopefully it blows over by tomorrow, _ he thought, hugging his arms close and willing his teeth not to chatter.  _ I need to get back on the trail. Maybe go back and beat some better directions outta that doctor. _

He burst through the front door in his hurry to escape the cold and heard a startled curse come from the top of the stairs. Looking up, he could see the shadowy form of the maid who had offered him shelter for the night.

“Sorry to startle ya, miss. Just tryin’ not to catch my death,” he murmured, suddenly feeling a bit sheepish and trying to remember what Dutch and Hosea had taught him about manners.

“Oh. Well, I guess I can’t blame you. Looks like it’s getting worse out there,” the woman replied, slowly making her way down the stairs. She was carrying a bundle of something in her arms, and though he couldn’t quite make it out in the dim candlelight of the front room, he remembered the sound of a baby crying earlier. “There’s a coat rack by the door there, but I understand if you want to keep yours on. It’s hard to keep the house warm in this weather. The stew’s ready, though, so I hope that helps. Just go sit in the dining room -- through there -- and I’ll bring you a bowl.”

Arthur obliged, taking a second to hang his hat up before moving through to the dining room. Out of habit, he scoped the building on his way -- if this Mrs. Palmer woman could afford to keep a maid, he figured the place would be decorated with frivolities, the usual status symbols wealthy people tended to collect for their homes to brag about at dinner parties. He was surprised to find the house nearly barren, except for some pieces of furniture. No pictures or works of art, so often set in those obnoxiously large frames in rich households, adorned the walls. No collections of fine china sat on display in the cabinets. Hell, even the few rugs in the place were worn out and faded.

_ Hard times, hmm? _

As he sat down at a shaky old dining table that had certainly seen better days, the maid slowly led another, older woman into the room and sat her at the head of the table.

“Sakes alive, I’m blind and I can still tell it’s darker than the inside of a mule in here! Ya ain’t got the sense to light a few more candles?!”

“Uh… Mrs. Palmer, we only have so many,” the young woman whispered. He caught her giving him a nervous glance before she looked away again, clearly embarrassed. “I didn’t want to go through any more than we needed to-”

“Yer the one wanted to bring’im in! He’s already gon’ have to choke down yer slop -- ya gonna make him do it in the dark, too?!  _ GET SOME DAMN CANDLES! _ ” The old crone punctuated her demand by pounding the table, and even Arthur flinched a bit in surprise. That gnarled fist had some strength in it yet. The maid quietly excused herself to fetch the candles, leaving Arthur and the old woman in an uncomfortable silence.

“Well,” Arthur finally spoke, clearing his throat, “Uh, it’s nice to meet ya Mrs. Palmer. My name is A-”

“Good lord, ya think I forgot yer name between the time that lil shake yelled it and now?”

Arthur blinked at the woman, mouth still hanging open. He’d met some cruel women in his travels, but very few that had been so openly venomous. Clenching his jaw, he fell back into silence, feeling a rush of pity for the poor maid -- and feeling even worse when he realized he hadn’t even asked her name yet. If Hosea were here, the old con would’ve definitely managed to discreetly knock him upside the head by now. The maid soon rushed back in, hurriedly setting down a few rusted candelabras and lighting them before rushing out, and Arthur shifted uneasily, eyeing the cloudy-eyed old woman next to him.

_ Damn near as icy in here as it is outside! _

The stew made up for the unpleasant atmosphere, at least in part. He hadn’t felt that hungry, but the second the maid walked in and set the bowl in front of him, the smell had his mouth watering. The young woman told him to dig in, and he had to hold himself back from devouring his food like a starved dog. He appreciated Pearson -- really, he did -- and he knew it wasn’t easy being a cook when you were constantly on the run and had no steady chain of supplies. But lord, it was good to eat something with some decent seasoning and no “mystery meat.”

He was already halfway finished with his bowl when he realized the maid had disappeared into what he assumed was the kitchen and hadn’t returned. Reluctantly, he turned back to Mrs. Palmer, who until now had been ignoring him as she ate.

“Uh… ‘Scuse me, ma’am, but could I help myself to seconds?”

Mrs. Palmer made some sort of disgusted noise deep in her throat before shrieking, “ _ GIRL! _ ” and Arthur bit the inside of his lip. He hadn’t wanted to bother the young woman any more, just swing by the kitchen and silently thank her. Still, the girl dutifully appeared, and at the vague gesture from Mrs. Palmer, turned expectantly to Arthur.

His mouth went dry. He wasn’t used to being waited on. Hell, he wasn’t even comfortable with the idea of it, but here this mystery girl was with her big, blue, tired doe eyes silently probing him, as if trying to anticipate what he wanted before he even said it. He supposed that was just what a good servant was supposed to do, but he still didn’t like it, quickly glancing away.

“I, uh…” He trailed off, eyeing his half-eaten bowl of stew. He couldn’t ask for seconds when he hadn’t actually finished -- that was just an excuse he’d planned on giving the old lady. “I just wanted to give my compliments to the chef. It’s delicious.”

When he glanced back up at the maid, he expected a polite but stiff response, something that said, ‘Gee, thanks for interrupting my dinner break for  _ that. _ ’ Instead, he saw surprise that immediately washed into soft gratitude. A fragile smile tugged at the girl’s lips, and for a moment, she didn’t look quite so exhausted. Then she ducked her head and a few loose, dark curls fell over her face, obstructing his view as she gave a gentle, “Thank you, sir.”

“No, no, thank you. Both of you,” he quickly added, giving the scowling Mrs. Palmer a glance before turning back to the maid. “I’d no doubt be half-frozen by now if you hadn’t shown me such hospitality. If there’s anything I can do to help out, or pay you back-”

“Heh! How much ya got on ya?” Mrs. Palmer cut in, cackling, and Arthur gave the woman a cold look.

“Um, I think she’s joking, sir. There’s no need for any of that,” the young woman cut in, eyes also briefly flickering to the old woman. “Was there anything else I could help with?”

“No, that was all. But the offer still stands, Miss…?” Arthur trailed off, trying one last time to get the woman’s name. He didn’t want to keep her from her food any longer, but now that he thought of it, he would still try and catch her in private later. She might be able to give him directions on where to go next, which would save him a trip back to Browning.

“Green,” she supplied after a moment of hesitation. Then, smiling, she continued. “Alice Green.”

Arthur blinked and his breathing seemed to stop for a moment as he tried to make sure he’d heard right. Then, he remembered himself and gave a wide smile of his own.

“Miss Green,” he repeated, trying to keep from sounding too pleased. “Thank you again.”

The little thief gave a small curtsy before disappearing once more into the kitchen, none the wiser. Arthur’s eyes lingered on the doorway a little longer before glancing down at his half-eaten stew, and then over to the tall windows behind Mrs. Palmer. It was dark out now, too dark to make much of anything out, but he could still hear the wind whistling as it blew around the house. Frost was quickly building up along the edges of the glass.

Swallowing another spoonful, Arthur quietly wondered what he’d done to get so lucky -- to get lost in the Grizzlies on the brink of a furious snowstorm and  _ still _ manage to stumble onto his mark. Better yet, to have her willingly invite him inside!  _ This’ll be a story for the campfire. _

He figured the actual shakedown for money could wait. At least until the weather had cleared up enough for him to take his leave. All he’d have to do is act a little tough, maybe knock over some of the furniture to cause a ruckus if she didn’t get the message right away. Either way, the woman would no doubt scramble to pay him back what was owed when she realized the situation.

With an amused snort, Arthur shook his head incredulously and set about finishing his dinner. By this time tomorrow, he’d hopefully be riding back to the gang, both with their missing money and a good story.


End file.
